FRIDAY WITH CHELSEA ROMEO ALLEN
I get out of work and am successful in convincing myself that I want to go to my kickboxing class today.
I am released from said grueling 72 minute boxing class by a man called ICE who obviously doesn't understand time management. (Just kidding ICE. I LOVE your commitment to pushing me to my limit, even if it means going over by 12 minutes!). He demands 50 push ups and 25 burpees in the last 5 minutes like a true freakazoid. I do 50 pushups... on my knees (like my mother taught me). I must bite my lip to keep myself from screaming in ICE’s direction that it's the first day of my crimson wave and does he know what it's like to do a burpee whilst an evil gnome uses your ovaries as a hammock?
I think about this evil gnome and the Olympic feat I've just accomplished in his presence. And I think that maybe during the real Olympics there should be a special announcement / parade for any athlete who is competing with her period.
I rethink this. And realize it's none of anyone's frickin’ business and that this great mystery is just one small reason why women are so damn special.
OK, but, what do those gals do when they have a race and Aunt Flo is in town? I couldn’t help but wonder: why aren't we talking about it? Periods and leotards, swimsuits, and running shorts: foe or foe?
I begin my 45 minute walk home through downtown… I smile at a dapper old man and think about how much I miss my grandfather. He responds kindly: "oh she is SEXY. She’s got that THING!" I rush past him and cover up my sopping wet, Cherokee brand children’s XL legging swathed bottom with my canvas gym bag… just in case, you know?
Bathing: I leave the conditioner in for a full 4 minutes! I think about how productive I could be if I exercised this kind of discipline and self control in other aspects of my life. Maybe I’d be a coveted pig farmer or Willem Da Foe’s assistant. I think briefly about this THING I possess and I wonder just what it is...
I went through a phase a few months back where I would get so anxious before going “out”, that I would make myself nauseated and be unable to eat. A level of drunkenness unparallelled by any human after one, single tequila & soda would follow... My BFF/roommate now diligently asks me if I've eaten before we go out so she doesn't spend the end of the night rubbing my back, and reassuring me that one day I will live on a farm in rural Vermont with the love of my life (Adrian Brody).
My new solution to this problem is a bowl peanut butter & banana oatmeal.
I put on my new favorite album which is a compilation of Buddy Rich solos, and get into my bed with my bowl of oatmeal... just for a minute I swear! My BFF isn't home yet and she will not be happy about this jazzy situation as it will probably mean she has to coax me out of the house. Also the only thing she can listen to these days is "Sensual Seduction"...
My BFF gets home and is alarmed by the situation… that I am in bed listening to a jazz drummer with my eyes closed, cradling an empty bowl. There is no way to conceal this situation as we live in a studio and possess no walls to hide behind.
Snoop Dogg echos through our apartment. I have no choice but to get up.
I look in the mirror and find that my totally endearing jazz nap has left me with not one but two cowlicks. One on the back of my head and the other on the left side of my face where my bangs are growing out.
The only solution is a half pony or a full pony. But the problem will be my bangs. Which have a tendency to “sprout” out of the hair elastic, a la a certain little rascal…
I google Ariana Grande because this is her area of expertise…
Some of this is a hair piece right? Or does she only eat avocados and algae collagen, because that’s not an option for me.
My half pony is done but if I move my head too quickly I risk releasing a sprout. I stare at myself in the mirror and my reflection and I make a pact (with my reflection) to not move my head tonight.
I HAVE NOTHING TO WEAR AND FEEL WEIRD AND CAMEL TOE-ISH IN ALL OF MY PANTS!
We are on bicycles headed to a bar to meet friends before this concert starts. I want to go somewhere kind of BOUGIE because I am half Italian and can only stomach amaro on Friday’s, but I lose this argument because if you go to a bougie bar here you risk getting your bum cupped by a guy whose granddad ran for senate or invented windshields or something.
At said dive bar I tell my friend Maxine about a dream I had recently: Steve Martin’s mother wrote a novel that was really meaningful to me and I ran into him while holding the book and I told him all about it and he told me I should pursue acting, but then I suggested we collaborate and he ghosted me.
There’s a cute guy playing pool!
He has a rat tail and a girlfriend who looks like she models part time and is ½ Skarsgaard.
At the venue I have one vodka soda and pee 5 times in an hour and a half.
I discuss my fear of diabetes with a complete stranger.
I ask my favorite man-friend for his input on why I haven’t heard from this guy who insisted multiple times he would call me 2 weeks ago and never did.
“Sounds like an asshole.” he says.
“So, are you all just SO freaked out that if we’re not available for instantaneous, Lars Von Trier sex than we’re going to become obsessed with you and force you to adopt a dog with us?”
*AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am lighthearted and FUN.*
“Excuse me? ‘Us guys’? There’s no us. What about you guys? You guys are these magical creatures who get to choose us. And you’re always choosing jerks. You’re OBVIOUSLY the ones with all the power”.
WHAT IN THE HELL IS HE TALKING ABOUT?
I suddenly can’t get “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone” out of my head… I move to the dance floor in an attempt to extricate Paula Cole from my subconscious.
Several sprouts are released in a hot fury of head bobbing. Yippee ay, yippee yay, am I right?
My friend buys a record from the cute drummer and feels awkward after telling him that this record got her through a really tough heartbreak and he does nothing but nod in response. This re-affirms my latest realization: drummers are somehow ALWAYS the cutest (Max Roach, Keith Moon, Christ Frantz, Ginger Baker, Clyde Stubbefield) BUT, also, usually the worst at flirting... We must leave at once.
The only thing left to do is go to Detroit One, eat waffle fries and spitball: Paula Cole vs. Shawn Colvin. “APPLES and ORANGES Chelsea!” a friend says too loudly.
I end on a high note after a particularly strong “Would You Rather: LOVE Edition”:
“A man who owns 34 beagles? Or: a Scottish man who’s trying to bring didgeridoo into the mainstream?”